


King

by weaponry



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anduin has a breakdown, Blood, Depression, again figurative, feat. author’s rampant projection problems, mental health, no actual blood it’s all figurative, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaponry/pseuds/weaponry
Summary: King; but his crown is made of thorns.
Kudos: 9





	King

**Author's Note:**

> Been a fat while since I’ve posted anything with a large amount of words ahaha (as in this is my first posted fic since 2014, yay!)
> 
> This 30-minute word dump was brought to you by the sheer fact that I project a lot, but also because Anduin definitely has some mental health issues he’s not working on. I hope he drinks plenty of water after his breakdowns.
> 
> Please exuse any errors and please do enjoy. :)

King. 

A golden word for most. 

You’d imagine a pale crown mounted, in all its reflective richness, atop a worthy, revered gentleman. Battle-scarred but alive to tell the tale for generations to come, a legend on everyone’s shelves, a daunting story told to children, the fireplace flames glistening in their wide eyes. A wonder to behold, a hero to look up to. 

My father was him, except no crown. He was never the sort to wear those, his presence was merely enough. More than enough, I rather should say. I could never imagine him with one on, though the subject would come up from time to time from a close subject or two, a simple tease in order to see a small smile twitch on his face for just a second.

As a child, I never saw a good enough reason to wear one if he never wore it himself. I’ve settled for the fact that it simply no longer runs in my family’s blood. 

It had never bothered me in the past, but now I find myself thinking about the crown nightly. 

A pale crown, gleaming so bright and white it compares to the burning sun above. Simple design but memorable to all. How light and comfortable it must sit on a king’s noble head, but piercing and heavy it weighs down on my own. 

I’ve not put any of the sort on since I was little, yet its dug itself straight into my cranium and all my skin and nerves and veins grew around it. A golden spectacle to behold on a velvet blue cushion in a well-guarded room behind the throne but rusted and bent and worn it has been hammered into me. No one sees it, but everyone knows it. 

King. 

I don’t think I’ve grown more and more tired of a single word ever in my life. 

King, I repeat, over and over, staring myself down in the washroom mirror. Silence around me except for a couple rogue crickets outside in the distance. 

I look myself in the eyes. Old, rugged, the light having been gone long ago. What used to be a deep ocean blue became the color of a curse. Emotionless, drab, greyscale. The dying life within them soaked itself down under my skin, dark circles encasing my eyelids like a lockbox. The back of my mind replayed the first time Genn noticed them, then quietly ordered makeup to be delivered to my room that same evening with a scrawled note in quick phrasing — the names of the royal nurses most experienced with discoloration coverups. I called them once or twice, but ceased after that. 

Shirtless I stand, looking at a boy. Young, brittle, priestly, little prince. The crown has been set onto me, and I feel it breaking my skin apart to make itself at home. 

I gaze at my eyes again, then down to my prosthetic, then the multitudes of scars across my chest, then back at my eyes. So small, so naïve, so kind. Not so much of a pacifist as he is foolish. What is a hero without their victories? What battles did he win? Surely none involving any weaponry. The only battles I’ve ever hoped of winning were ones of petty words; arguments that mattered little where killing could do more of the talking, and a good portion of them fueled by a tricky little dragon prince who ate political points like those for breakfast. 

I numbed at the thought of his scorching grin and the smell of both coal and exotic incense, but the abyss in my chest grew larger as I remembered how short my time with him was. Short... but sweeter than I could ever anticipate. 

The image of him in my brain hazed evermore as the days, weeks, months go by, and arms prickled at the realization. I was almost no longer angry and confused at his betrayal... I think I just wish someone — anyone — was still here with me. 

I study the empty spaces on my left and right. Cold, dim, and alone. The lone candle I had lit has finally melted down to the base, and the flame flickers to nothing but a soft stream of smoke. Darkness envelops the room. The crown drills itself some holes into my skull, and I feel cool, thick liquids matt my hair. 

I find myself intertwining my own fingers, looking for any comfort, any salvation, but I get nothing. Heavy tears stroll down my cheeks but I cannot sense them, only the blood lurching itself from the mangled, rusted, bronzed crown ripping its owner apart in order to have a place in the universe. 

Soon I am on the floor, soaking myself in salty rivers of tears, wondering why I exist in the first place, with a terrorizing headache that will pound itself well off into the morning once more.


End file.
